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Mother

“It” was just a curdle of blood
Unaware from the worldly world
“It” was a part of her
Living inside of her
Never taken away from..

And from that day
She wore “It” as a jewel
On her soul
Not body
And took along wherever she walked..

“It” was wrapped in the sacred dark
But wasn’t scared of darkness
And of the silence..

Until the day
“It” was taken away from her
And then “It” cried
Of fear of light
And of sounds
And the experiences new..

But would settle down
As “It” came back to her
And relax to a secured sleep..

She was with “It” until today
She turned into ashes
And was heard no more
When her name was called no more..

She is the one
Who turned “It”
To be what it is today
A “name”
And yet another fruit bearing tree
To have many such “It” ‘s again
Until the day
Today’s name would be called no more
But yet another “It”..
…
She is Mother

Since you’re here …
… we have a small favour to ask. More people are reading Fried Eye than ever but advertising revenues across the media are falling fast. And unlike many organisations, we haven’t put up a paywall – we want to keep our articles as open as we can. So you can see why we need to ask for your help. To keep Fried Eye alive it takes a lot of time, money and hard work. But we do it because we believe our perspective matters – because it might well be your perspective, too. We don't want to produce content that everyone else is producing. Help us sustain by supporting us.
Help us grow. We’re a non-profit. For as little as Rs. 100, you can support Fried Eye – and it only takes a minute. Help us in bringing better content. Thank you.